A poem from my book Trauma Songs and poems of a failed life

I wince each time my name appears
written by my hand, spoken by another’s.
Letters that once meant nothing
now carry every storm I never escaped.
Matthew.
A word that tastes like old wounds,
a sound that drags the past up by the throat.
When I see it, my whole life reels:
mistakes replaying, shadows stacking,
all the weight I’ve carried pressed
into seven letters.
Sometimes I swear the name itself
watches me, judging, twisting my stomach
until I can’t stand the thought
of being its keeper.
Matt. Matthew.
Matthew Paul Haubert.
A full incantation I never chose,
echoing like the voice of my demons—
not because I am them,
but because they learned
to hide inside the syllables
that were supposed to belong to me.